Bound By Our Hate, Bound By Our Love
by Stream'sxCupxOfxTea
Summary: A look into the complex relationship that Arthur and Eames share; sometimes violent, sometimes gentle, but always complicated.  Rated M for an abuse of the f-word


Cobb doesn't know. Of course Cobb doesn't know. There's no way that he would know, because Eames and Arthur didn't really announce to the world that they were fucking each other senseless behind closed doors back a couple years ago. In theory, someone with a half a brain might be able to figure out that they were more than just comrades (friends, allies, co-workers on the same team) but Cobb no longer has a brain, much less half of one. Arthur can't really blame him; who could blame him, since his wife went batshit crazy, killed herself and successfully screwed over the man's life forever?

Still, it would be nice if the Extractor snapped out of that guilt and shame filled fog he was living in, and looked around at the real world for a minute or two, if only to realize that he wasn't the only one living with a broken heart (although, since it was Eames that he had been dealing with, maybe it didn't count as heart-break. And it had been Arthur's own stupid fault; he had no one to blame but himself). Arthur didn't think it was going to be an issue at first, back when it was just kisses that tasted like liquor and a game to play when things were dull. Back when Mal was still alive, and the five of them were all working together on simple, easy jobs that were completed within a day, Arthur could easily fool himself into thinking that things were always going to be this way, and that maybe, maybe, maybe things could work out between him and the British gambler.

Then Cobb and Mal went too far; Cobb tried to save her, and in the end only brought about her death. Eames, who had never been very good at dealing with tragedy, took off in the blink of an eye, off to Africa, and it was comforting and less complicated to think that him and Eames would never, ever meet again (except maybe in dreams, and memories, and accidentally calling out the wrong person's name late at night). Arthur and Nash stayed with Cobb, because that was what friends did. Because Cobb needed people to stick around and keep him sane (and maybe, someday, Arthur will need to call on Cobb, and have him return the favor).

But, of course, nothing really works out the way it should (and Arthur should know that by know, why doesn't he fucking just expect everything to go wrong?). So when Cobb goes out to ensnare Eames into their simple (impossible, impossible, so goddamn impossible) little task of inception, Arthur just sighs with resignation and considers investing in a new totem. And oddly enough, it's Ariadne who might be the only one clever enough to put two and two together. When Arthur shows her his totem (a loaded die that used to belong to Eames, until he gave it to Arthur one night, drunk and the mood to love and be happy) he sees that look of confusion flicker in her eyes. Arthur the boring, the straight-laced stick in the mud, with a loaded die for a totem?

She just dismisses it at first, because she's got other things to worry about. But then Eames waltzes in, all British accent, heavy drinking and fake poker chips practically falling out of his sleeves. Arthur can practically see things click together in Ariadne's head, like maybe she's starting to understand. After that, he can feel her eyes on him, watching, curious, questioning, because she wants to KNOW. But all that does is make Arthur even less keen to seek out the gambler in public (or even private), to apologize and ask how things are going. Best let the past stay remembered but un-acted upon. Because he doesn't want to make the same mistake this time; Arthur wants to be able to say no should the offer come up. And he won't have to refuse, won't have to say no, if he just keeps a distance, and makes sure the job stays strictly professional this time around.

Too bad Eames doesn't work like that.

Arthur doesn't know why the Forger seeks him out; maybe Eames is lonely (several years in the company of strangers can go that to you) or he wants to go back to what the two of them once had (and that's not going to happen, as of course Eames should know). Maybe he just wants a quick one night stand with someone familiar. But more likely is that Eames just likes messing with people, making them uncomfortable, making them squirm. Arthur, more than anyone else, knows that this is true. But if Eames thinks he is the only one who knows how to make sarcastic comments really hurt, or what buttons to push, then he is sorely mistaken. Arthur knows he shouldn't play this game (he won't win, he can't win, and this is exactly how things started last time), but he can't help himself.

That smug smile that Eames wears like a piece of fine jewelry whenever he looks at Arthur annoys the American to no end. So he responds in the only way that he honestly and truly knows gets under the skin of the British man; a condescending tone and a look of mild surprise every time Eames does something right. Because if there's one thing Eames hates, it's being treated as a child.

And so they bicker and banter back and forth, just like old times. Except not at all, because the 'old times' were all fun and games, and this is bitterly disillusioned. Cobb doesn't notice, because he's too caught up in his own world, own dreams, where he brings his wife back from the dead. Yusuf doesn't understand anything at all (anything being the dynamics of how their group works) because he's new and just trying to piece everything together (or, more likely, he just doesn't care. He's in this for the money, and once it's all over, he'll flee back to Mombasa with a single backwards glance, which is also quite similar to what Eames will probably do.) Ariadne suspects, but she won't or ask, or say anything (which is a bit funny, actually, since she's questioning and badgering Cobb every second of every day, asking questions that he doesn't want to think about, doesn't want to answer, every chance she gets). Satio, like Ariadne, suspects and can (could) guess the truth, but says nothing (because it's not his place and besides, he's got bigger things to worry about).

And Arthur wishes, really, truly wishes that he could get past this, because he's not some emotional teenager who just got dumped for the first time. He also wishes he could blame it all on Eames; say Eames was the one stirring up old feelings. That would make things so much neater, and possibly easier to deal with.

But the funny thing is that it isn't Eames who wants the first move to be made (and fast). It's Arthur who misses the days when they were drunk on happiness and the lazy, carefree sex, when promises for the future were made left and right. Eames may have started it, with taunts and smirks and snide little comments. But Arthur sure as hell isn't doing everything that he could be to keep a grip on his emotions. Maybe he wants Eames to get angry (instead of just more sarcastic and politely unkind) so that they can fight and then fuck and then fight some more. That won't get them anywhere, of course, but it's a nice fantasy. Arthur has never been the dominant one though, so really all he can do is wait for Eames to make the first move (and egg him on relentlessly before suddenly realizing, much too late, of course, that he doesn't want this, and hard as it may be, he should just walk away).

He is explaining totems to Satio; the Japanese man has no real need for one, but Satio is fascinated by the idea, and really, everyone should have one, just to be safe. It's that damn loaded die again that Arthur has to use when explaining the concept. Eames is the room, shuffling papers and researching Peter Browning, most of his attention focused on his work, but there's a small part of it focused on the Point Man (probably waiting for the right moment to let loose some bitter remark). Arthur can feel the Forger's surprise like a physical blow; the British man is shocked that the American is still using some cheater's trick as a totem.

Funny, in a way, that such a small and seemingly insignificant little object could finally be the push needed to get the two of then to talk alone. Eames's eyes are narrowed and curious the rest of the day; Arthur can tell he's not going to let this one go. So it comes as no surprise to Arthur that as he's packing up for the night, he hears footsteps headed in his direction, and then a faintly mocking British voice.

"Thought you would be using something new by now. I was sure you would have long since tossed away that old thing to get rid of bad memories, hmm?" Eames doesn't need to explain what he's referring to, since they both already know. Arthur straightens, and turns to face the Forger, who's leaning casually against one of the poles that have been placed in a seemingly random manner around the warehouse (the perfect thing for someone who is too preoccupied to look where he's going to walk right into and yes, Arthur is speaking some experience) hands in his pockets, and an uncharacteristically cool look in his face.

"What, and have to go through all the trouble of finding a new totem?" Arthur keeps his voice determinedly light, like this is just another one of their cruelly playful conversations. Out of habit, he pulls out the red, worn cube of plastic and bounces it in his hand, finding comfort in it's familiar weight.

"It's not quite as complicated as you would think, darling." Like before, Arthur knows what Eames is talking about. The fake poker chip that he's seen the man toying with several times before, when they are discussing and planning, and pointing out all the different things that could go wrong (everything; it's fucking inception). Something sets that chip apart from all the other fake ones the gambler has made; some barely noticeable flaw in the artistic design, or a slight difference in the edges that only Eames can see.

"Yes, well, I'm a busy man." Arthur turns completely and rests the palms of his hands on the cool metal edge of the desk so that he's leaning back slightly and facing Eames, the die clutched tightly between two fingers.

"Oh come now Arthur, we both know that's not the real reason you don't have something different and much more boring to remind you of what's real and what's not." Eames straights up from the pole, and takes several steps towards the American, radiating something like malice and danger, so that Arthur tenses. Eames seems like a cornered, crazed animal right now, hurt and lashing out, right and left, at friend and foe. "You couldn't be just holding onto this for old-time's sake, could you?"

Arthur forces himself to laugh. "I'm afraid that is the case only in your dreams."

Eames clutches at his heart in mock-shock, and wags a finger in Arthur's face, although they both know that this is more than just a teasing joke; Arthur can see the truth in the Forger's eyes. "Oh, pet, how did you figure it out? You ARE in my dreams, and the nice thing about my job is that I end up spending more in the dream world than I do in reality."

Projections are a bitch, not only because they are so unpredictable and dangerous (one minute they're helping you with the job and the next they're shooting at you like there's no tomorrow and aiming to kill), but because they are the easiest way to get lost, to lose your sense if what is a dream and what is real. Arthur tries to tell himself that he doesn't care, not one bit, not in the slightest, about what form Eames projections take. But he still can't ignore the fact that it feels like he swallowed an ice cube when the Brit announces that his subconscious takes the form of the Point Man (nor can Arthur ignore the fact that his own projections are starting to take a disturbingly familiar form).

"What do you want Eames?" Arthur asks in a tired voice, because he doesn't have time for this, and he himself isn't even sure what he wants. Yes, absolutely, he wants Eames to push him against that wall and screw him to the point of where it hurts to move, or even breathe. But at the same time, he doesn't want the emotional baggage that comes with being the British man's bed warmer. Both Arthur and Eames are masters in the art of the one-night stand, but you can't really do that sort of thing with Eames (because things can't ever be that easy).

Or, at least, Arthur can't. Because after a while, he wants something more than just sex, wants possibly, maybe, something like a legitimate relationship (and he doesn't think that's too much to ask. He's not asking for Eames's hand in marriage, or a house which they would share and raise kids in. He's just asking for something other than cheap hotels and smoky bars). But even that would be too domesticated for Eames; he balks at the idea of being more than fuck-buddies (that probably WAS his idea of a relationship).

"Oh Arthur, love, I think you know exactly what I want." Eames purrs, and his gray-green eyes have a wicked sort of gleam to them, because somehow he knows, he knows that Arthur is indecisive, he knows that Arthur would (will) submit with just a little more teasing and prodding, he knows that in the near future the two of them will be fucking like animals, slaves to lust and desire, exactly like something out of a bad porn book (but without the sappy ending). God only knows how Eames knows these things, but he does.

Arthur hates him, with every fiber in his body. And he hates this vicious cycle that the two of them are apparently trapped in, this up and down roller-coater that is seriously messing both of them up. He didn't think it was possible, but the pieces of the puzzle are all starting to fall together now, and believe it or not, Eames was also hurt during their last little fling. That comes as a real shock to Arthur, and only succeeds in making him more angry.

"Fuck you." He say in a resigned hiss under his breath, loud enough for Eames to hear, as he grabs his bag and pushes past the Forger, the sound of his shoes slapping against the faux-marble floor echoing in the silence. He tries to act like he doesn't care, tries to feel like he can't feel the Brit's angry gaze, hot as red coals, burning holes into his retreating back. But even when Arthur is blocks away from that damnable warehouse, standing outside his hotel, a cool night breeze tousling his hair, he can still feel those two accusing pin-pricks of heat burning into his flesh.

Neither Arthur nor Eames is very surprised when the next night finds them angrily fucking in some broom-closet (and yes, they are both fully aware of the irony of the situation) moans and growls muffled by the closed door, even though there's no one to hear them. Looking back, Arthur isn't even sure who started it; they are probably equally to blame. He has a vague memory of Eames cornering him in some shadowy hall that was far away from away the others, pressing him hard against the hall, and biting down painfully on his lips, so violently that it can't really be called a kiss.

But Arthur also remembers shoving the man away (a bad idea, when they both want it), and stalking off, playing hard to get (until Eames shoved him into a janitor's storage room and locked the door behind him). They don't speak, they don't even look at each other, because neither one is willing to meet the stormy eyes that he knows will greet him should he dare to look up. It's nothing but sex; fast, painful, hate-filled sex, the feeling of Eames' body grinding against his own.

Arthur is finally willing to admit they have a problem (a problem like they've never had before, in magnitude and the number of all the little emotional strings that are attached) when his dreams stop consisting of inception, and are suddenly about nothing but hard, hot kisses that taste like cheap champagne (never wine, Eames won't drink wine), cigarette tobacco, black licorice and those damn salted sunflower seeds that the Forger was always chewing. There is a problem when both Arthur's waking hours and his sleeping ones are spent dreaming about kisses that press down almost painfully on the flesh, kisses than seem to burn the places they touch.

"Don't you ever get tired of this?" Arthur asks tiredly one night as he lays on his back and stares up at the hotel ceiling, which is just so typical and boring and so perfectly fucking ordinary (the total opposite of his life). There is no accusing tone to his voice, no whiny undertone, no underhand double-meaning. It's just a simple question, born out of curiosity and the need to know. Right now he's not angry, and neither was the sex (which in some ways is good, because he's sick of waking up the next morning sore and covered with purpleblueblack bruises). This time around it was gentle, but needy and desperate and full of loneliness (their lives defined). Tomorrow, of course, that will probably all have changed; he and Eames will be clawing, scratching and biting away, wanting to hurt the other, wanting something other than this God-awful, three times fucked over life they have now.

"Tired of what?" Eames asks, rolling over onto his side to face Arthur, and propping his head up on one hand, the dark ink of his numerous tattoos gleaming with sweat in the dim lighting (So much so that Arthur feels like if he reached out to touch one of the designs, his fingers would come away stained with black). The cigarette held loosely between the British Man's lips creates a hazy fog between the two of them, and the scent of cloves mixed with tobacco makes the Point Man's head spin.

Arthur opens his mouth, and then closes it again, because if Eames doesn't know the feeling that Arthur is referring to (Of want more, something stable, a real relationship), if he doesn't immediately understand (This feeling of constant loneliness) and nod, then he never will know. If Eames doesn't respond with an immediate 'Yes, as a matter of fact, I do get tired of just fucking, fucking, fucking. Just like you, I also get tired of a relationship with nothing but sex', then he clearly doesn't feel the same way that Arthur does, simple as that. So Arthur just sighs, and turns onto his side, away from the Forger. "Forget it." (And he feels like crying, which is very silly, because this is a very ridiculous thing to cry about. Still, Arthur can't stop his throat from burning, or from tears gathering at the corners of his eyes)

And as he's drifting off to sleep between starchy whites sheets in just another hotel room (One out of the countless he has shared with the British man) the scent of cloves still lingering in the air, he feels rough lips brush gently against the exposed skin of his neck. Then Eames rolls over, and turns off the light, leaving the two of them in silent darkness, a sacred stillness neither of them are willing to break. That was the closest thing he'll ever get to an apology, Arthur surmises; a soft kiss on the neck. But maybe that's all for the best. After all, any words would just sound hollow and fake.

Arthur just lays there, resisting the urge to reach out to the other person in the bed. He's struck with the sudden desire to wrap his arms around broad shoulders and say it's okay, even if it really isn't. He wants to comfort Eames, because that it what lovers do. But what is there to console about? So Arthur squashes that impulse, and forces his eyes closed, waiting for sleep to take him away to another joyless morning and another cold bed.

This is the only way Eames knows how to show that he cares, Arthur realizes the next morning, as he pulls on his clothes in an empty hotel room, trying to convince an angry Cobb via text that he was on his way, that no, he wasn't skipping out on another day of illegal, illegitimate work. If Eames didn't care, if he only wanted to get Arthur underneath him for the American's looks, then they wouldn't keep coming back to this. Their relationship would have been a one-night stand, plain and simple (And then they could have gone merrily on their way, without a care in the world, never to see each other again and not upset by that in the least). So because Eames cares (Because Arthur might, yes, love him in return) they keep returning to this, this odd mix of love and hate. Angry one night and gentle the next, kiss marks on the neck and bruises on the wrists, that is the only relationship the two of them can possibly ever have.

And that's a bloody damn depressing thought if he's ever heard one.


End file.
